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5 


MUF 




By MRS. CLARA BARNES MARTIN. 



PORTLAND : 

LOKING, SHORT & HARMON. 



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MUFF 


A CONTRIBUTION TO THE FAIR OF THE SECOND PARISH, 
FOR THE PAYSON MEMORIAL CHURCH. 


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✓ 


By MRS. CLARA BARNES MARTIN. 

U 



PORTLAND: 


Loring, Short & Harmon. 

1877 . 


A great fire is like a great battle, in that each man 
knows only what he sees close about himself— and so, in 
after times, a thousand different tales are told. 

One episode in the history of the fatal night of the Fourth 
of July, 1866, is recorded in these pages which I dedicate to 
the memory of the Old Homes of Portland. 


Copyright 1877, 
Clara Barnes Martin. 


PRESS OF TUCKER PRINTING HOUSE. 


Muff is a cat — a great, gray cat with broad white 
bosom, and such dainty white gloves and slippers ! I 
saw him sitting this afternoon, on the window seat be- 
side his mistress’s work-basket, and I could scarcely 
believe the story they told me of his rescue after the 
great fire, all smirched and scorched with smoke and 
cinders. 

I need not tell you where he lived — for the terrible 
disaster which swept over the beautiful city of Port- 
land, last fourth of July, is only too well known. His 
home was a large old-fashioned house on a quiet street, 
shaded by noble elms. The green yard in front had a 
broad walk that led up to the great steps, where Muff 
and the children had many a merry play. Alas ! that 
neither pets nor children shall cross that threshold 
more ! Along the path, the tall white summer-lilies 
were in full bud — the crimson cluster-roses were just 
in their prime, and the broad bed of fringed pinks was 
fresh and fragrant, that ill-fated day. In doors, were 
large cool rooms, low-ceiled but deep-windowed, hung 
round with old portraits, and set about with spider- 
legged tables and chairs. The china closet was full of 
rare old treasures, for Captain Vaughan sailed his own 
ship out of Portland harbor for over thirty years, and 
he never came home without remembering his wife’s 


4 


pride in her china. The wide front entry led through 
the house to the garden door that opened on a long 
brick walk, and a woodbine trellis. There had once 
been a gay garden there, but now the grass had. grown 
round the rows of box. Only a standard pear, one 
white rose tree, and a bed of mignonette were left. 
Up stairs, were tall presses, with generous store of 
blankets and linen still left after the well-answered 
calls of the Sanitary Commission. The best chamber, 
with cushioned chairs and curtained bed of spotless 
dimity, stood ever ready for the welcome guest. 
“ Mother’s room ” — the sunniest of all, bright with its 
gay chintz, and its open fire on chill evenings, had 
been, to many sons and daughters, a refuge and a de- 
light. Beyond, was the nursery. The well-worn carpet 
showed the tread of little feet, and the tall fender still 
barred the grate. The old clock on the stairs ticked 
nigh upon its hundredth year, and children’s children 
pattered up and down. Hither, the Captain had 
brought his bride, half a century ago, and thence, his 
children had gone out, one after another, to new homes, 
and thence, latest of all, the old Captain himself, full 
of years and honors, was carried to his long home. 
Only Grandmamma Vaughan was left now, with Mary 
the youngest of the flock, to wait year after year, as the 
absent ones came back for the beauty and freshness of 
the summers in the dear old town. This year, the old 
house renewed its youth, for Rob and Alice, aged seven 
and five, children of a son who, like his father, followed 
the sea, were left in aunt Mary’s charge, while their 
mother accompanied her husband. 


5 


It was a quiet house, but the children were always 
happy there. Kind old friends of grandmamma were 
often there, and, in many a summer twilight, the fair 
faces of aunt Mary’s young companions' brightened the 
old parlor. There were merry cousins, at uncle 
James’s, far up town, who came on holiday afternoons, 
to listen to grandmamma’s stories, and race about the 
garden with Muff. 

It was a home and a household, in no way remarka- 
ble, but I have described it, because it was like many 
and many another, out of which, on that awful night, 
went women and children by the hundreds together, 
leaving their all to the flames. 

It had been a peaceful sort of day, not much going 
on in the streets. Rob and Alice had fired crackers 
and torpedoes on the brick walk, all the morning. Too 
proud of Muff’s glossy coat to risk singeing it with the 
crackers, they had peppered him with torpedoes, till 
his nerves and his back could stand it no longer, and 
he had retreated in utter discomfiture. When the bells 
rang at noon, uncle James came in, and helped them 
fire their last bunch in a barrel, with which grand 
fusillade, they finished their celebration. Uncle James 
promised to return, to take them to see the flre-works 
— “ but,” he added, “ there is a strong south wind ris- 
ing. Perhaps they will put off the show. You do not 
feel it here in the shelter of the house, but it blows 
hard, and the clouds look as if more were coming.” 

So, each went his way — aunt Mary and Alice to put 
on white dresses in honor of the day, and Rob, to wash 
off the powder -stains, to be ready for the salmon and 


6 


strawberries of the holiday dinner. They had scarcely 
risen from table, before aunt Mary had to shut the 
front door and the parlor windows, for the air was full 
of dust. All the people who passed by, were holding 
on to their hats or bonnets, and looked as if they had 
almost lost their last breath in the wind. But it was 
very pleasant in the old parlor. All the vases were 
full of flowers, and grandmamma sat in the great 
straight-backed chair, and told them stories of fourth 
of July, when she was a little girl. 

Meanwhile Muff had betaken himself to his own 
abode in a little room over the summer kitchen. Muff 
was grandmamma’s special pet. He had lived with 
her more than a dozen years — had attended five of the 
family weddings, and when the old Captain died, he 
refused to be comforted, but sat, all day, at the door of 
the dead man’s room, waiting for the morning greeting 
to which he had been accustomed. He had seen many 
generations of cats and dogs come and go among the 
neighbors, and had come to be regarded as a sort of 
patriarch — a guardian of the public peace. 

Waiting up stairs till the silence of the children’s 
voices told him the coast was clear, he made his way 
down, and set forth upon his daily rounds, from which, 
his curiosity as to what Rob and Alice were about, had 
detained him. Muff was a favorite with his friends, so 
that he was welcomed in the neighboring kitchens and 
sheds by both cook and cat. It was only a step down 
the garden fence and round a post, and then over the 
wood-pile to a little window, where he could peep in 
upon Madame Finette, a pretty little black-and tan 


7 


terrier. I doubt if she was glad to see him, that day, 
for how could a mother with nine sons and daughters 
to take care of, stop to entertain company? So she 
showed her white teeth and growled a little at him, and 
then curled down again, beside her rat-like babies, as 
much as to say, “Not at home.” So Muff went on, 
through the clothes-yard and down the garden, up the 
back of the summer-house to the top of the fence, where 
he could look over to the back piazza of *a little brown 
house where lived, as Alice reported after her first visit, 
“two such dear old ladies, and such darling cats.” The 
darling cats, three together were keeping fourth of July 
on the piazza, round a saucer of custard, which Miss 
Gratia Wrenn had set out as their share of the holiday 
feast. Muff was welcome, for did not he and “Old 
Puss,” the grandmother of the group, come in the same 
basket, kittens together, from Newburyport, years ago ? 
Mistress Conny, (short for “Contraband,” for she was 
black as black could be) made room for him on the 
side, where he could best see the gay cockade, she wore 
in honor of the day. The kitten — “ a little black slug,” 
Rob called it — it curled itself, so round and flat, on the 
floor — slept quietly, while the friends gossipped over 
their dainty, — heard Muff’s terrors of the morning, and 
how Miss Horatia aud Miss Gratia had slept never a 
wink, all night, for fear of being burnt up in their beds 
by those wicked fire-crackers. 

In-doors, dressed in their Sunday best, sat the two 
sisters, aged and wrinkled — for had not Miss Horatia 
been carried from her cradle when the British burned 
Falmouth ? But the wrinkles were the traces of 


8 


smiles, for theirs was a happy old age, under the roof 
which had sheltered them for eighty years and odd. 
Miss Horatia read the Christian Mirror of the week, 
while Miss Gratia took her afternoon nap in the rock- 
ing-chair. All the while the wind was rushing through 
the great horse-chestnut that darkened the sitting- 
room, till a wilder gust tore off a long branch of the 
grape vine and blew it with a crash across the windows, 
waking Miss Gratia with a start, and sending the 
frightened cats away off behind the currant bushes. 

“ It must be past four,” thought Muff ; so, he trotted 
round to his own front yard, not without stopping more 
than once, for the blinding dust and flying leaves, and 
reached the broad stone-step, all strown with crimson 
and white petals from the cluster rose and the syringas, 
just as the Third Parish bell rang out, quick and sharp, 
an alarm of fire. Aunt Mary opened the front door to 
look out, but the whirl of the wind left her no chance 
to see, and she retreated, only giving Muff time to slip 
in, when he was seized by Rob, and carried off to the 
nursery, to enact with Alice, the part of audience for 
his fourth of July oration. 

The bell soon stopped, and the alarm seemed over, 
only from the upper window they could see, above the 
elms, a column of smoke, but so far off to the south, 
that even grandma paid little heed. Presently, Norah 
O’Brien, the cook, came hurrying home, mindful of the 
belated supper. 

“ But oh ! Miss Mary, sure, and it was the big fire ! — 
the big mill on the wharf, and them old sheds, and the 
Foundry ! — and it all began in that little boat-shop, 


9 


this side Bridget Conover’s my cousin, — and isn’t it the 
good luck for Bridget and the childer, that their house 
is over beyont it, else never a roof would they have to 
their heads, this blessed night ? And sure, and they 
say its the grate Sugar House that’l burn yit, and me 
and the women stood laughing at the old boat-house, to 
see it smoke, and niver thought to say ‘ fire !’ ” 

The column of smoke grew broader and blacker. 
The southerly gale swept it along in great masses, 
almost over their heads. People went hurrying by, the 
neighbors were opening their scuttles to look out, and 
pretty soon, the black soot and cinders began to fall in 
the front yard, but they had come so far the fire was 
out. There could be no danger from a fire, a mile 
away. Rob begged to go out, and after much entreaty, 
aunt Mary consented, and he set forth under Norah’s 
charge. The passers-by reported the Sugar House 
burning — then, it was up in York street. Then, a 
neighbor, returning home, stopped to say “ the fire was 
breaking through into Cross street. It was very dread- 
ful, but they must be thankful they were safe ! No 
doubt, it must cross the city, but it could not come 
below the First Parish church, at furthest.” 

Then grandma and aunt Mary waited and watched, 
while the gray light of the cloudy day changed, not to 
twilight or darkness, but to a lurid glare. The great 
elm branches tossed to and fro against the crimson 
sky, and threw ghastly shadows across the street and, 
garden. 

Rob and Norah came home, half frightened, half 
wild, with the strange excitement. “ Middle street,” 


10 


Bob said, “was all full of chairs and kitchen things, 
and a piano on the sidewalk, and carpets in the dirt ! 
And they saw an Irishman carrying his pig, and a 
woman carrying a barrel of flour” — “ and oh ! aunt 
Mary ! one poor little boy was fast asleep, right on the 
hard bricks, in Middle street ! ” At this, Alice burst 
out crying so pitifully, that for a few minutes, all were 
busy in consoling her with assurances that she was safe, 
and should go to sleep in her own little bed, whither 
she accordingly went, with Muff in her arms, for a 
comforter. 

Muff himself had, by this time, discovered something 
amiss, and was willing enough to get out of sight, on 
the dark side of the house, if aught could be dark 
under that fiery sky. . 


The old clock on the stairs struck nine. Aunt Mary 
listened, from force of habit, for the nine o’clock bell, 
and then was, for the first time, conscious that the 
distant roar had come nearer. Some sounds were sep- 
arating themselves and assuming distinctness. Could 
that be the crash of falling walls ? or that explosion, 
like a cannon, the blowing up of houses ? Was that 
awful flame coming nearer ? Would it sweep over 
them ? — and with a sudden throb of terror, her heart 
stood still, as she thought of herself, alone with her 
aged mother, the sleeping child, the helpless boy. 
Where, oh ! where was her brother ? But, almost with 
the thought, she heard his step in the lower entry, and 
sprang to meet him. “Oh ! what ? — where ” ? was all 


11 


she could say, still under the spell of the first concep- 
tion of the possibility of danger. 

“ Not here, yet ! ” were his re-assuring words. “ It . 
must take the heart of the city now, for it is almost 
upon Middle street. When I left my office, it was com- 
ing up Union street, as fast as a man could walk — but 
the Custom-house must stop it, — it can’t pass there. It 
was like a charge of cavalry on the street. We have 
saved almost everything, but many a man has lost his 
all. Thank God, this dear old home is still safe !” — as 
Mary recovered her presence of mind, and could smile 
again. 

“Don’t let mother be frightened. I must not stop 
now, for every man is needed,” and worn and tired as 
he looked, he turned to go, but pausing on the step an 
instant, he came back, saying — “But, at any rate, I 

will take , no ! it is foolish ! the fire certainly will 

stop ! Yet perhaps, it may be best ; I will take father’s 
portrait, but don’t let mother know it ! And, Mary, do 
you remember the old canvass fire bags, that were 
grandfather’s, up in the north attic ? Should you be 

afraid to look for them — if ” and the man’s voice 

quivered one instant, for that was the home of all their 
life, — “ they might be useful you know. But, at any 
rate, be sure I will come back ! ” 

No thought of fear for her now ! The something to 
do, gave her, as it did many another weak woman in 
that scene of dismay, the strength and courage of 
heroes. Sure that her mother who sat watching the 
sleeping Alice, was still secure from alarm, she called 
Rob to hold her lamp. In another moment, she was 


12 


pulling the old bags out of the corner, where she had 
often wondered at them, when a child, as the remains, 
of some dark age, when fire-engines were not, and 
neighbors had far to come. To drag them down the 
narrow stairs to her own room, was an easy task — but 
how to tell her mother of the need upon them ? Rob's 
quick impulse had been before her. “ Grandma ! 
grandma ! come help us pack the big bags ! and can’t 
we put Muff* in, so he will be safe ?” 

“ Mary ! my child !” in her own soft voice, was all 
the old lady said, as she met her daughter, but on her 
placid face there came a smile — though Mary thought 
not of it then, nor remembered it till long after, and 
then with sorrowful weeping, — as if, with the summons 
thus to give, up the home of her youth, the shelter of 
her age, there was sent a vision of “ the house not made 
with hands,” to which she stood so near ! 

Mary drew up the curtain to look again at the sky. 
It was no longer smoke and light, but the shooting, 
flashing flames rose over the elms, in purple and crim- 
son. Carts and wagons, loaded with household stuff, 
were hurrying by. Lights were flitting about the upper 
rooms of the neighboring houses. The alarm was 
spreading. It could no longer be concealed — the fire 
had passed the utmost bound of their foreboding. 

Still that pitiless wind rattled the window-pane. 

Scant time had they to choose what of the house- 
hold gods to carry with them out of the burning city. 
It might be minutes only, — to decide among the relics 
of a life-time, where every shelf had its recollection, 
and every drawer, its memory. Miniatures, the Family 


13 


Bible, and silver, the quaint old heir-looms of more 
than a century, with what clothing would fill the bags, 
was all they could hope to save — and again the sense 
of loneliness almost overpowered Mary, as she sought 
for warm shawls to protect her mother and Alice, on 
their midnight walk, if go they must. Rob watched by 
Alice, his little heart swelling within him — “ would 
nobody come to help them? — when Patrick’s house 
was burned, up on the hill, there were hundreds there, 
and they pulled everything out ! Wont anybody come 
to save papa’s books, and grandpa’s secretary ?” 

Alas ! alas ! long ere this, some of the strongest had 
lain down in utter exhaustion ! Thousands of hands 
and feet could not have done the work that was needed 
that night ! 

On came the awful blast, merciless, remorseless, 
over-leaping, over-lapping, sweeping through busy street 
and quiet lane ; rolling over roof and spire ; sparing 
neither the delights of home, nor the sanctities of the 
church ; the relics of the dead, nor the treasures of the 
living ; the memories of age, nor the hopes of youth ! 
The venerable blind, the helpless invalid who could not 
so much as venture her foot to the ground for delicate- 
ness, the dead child from its coffin, the new-born babe 
from its cradle, must, all alike, forth into the night, at a 
command more terrible than Death’s ! 

Mr. Vaughan, on leaving the old house, had lost no 
time in searching for some sort of carriage to remove 
his mother, as every moment made the completeness of 
the impending disaster more apparent ; but everything 


14 


of the sort had long since been seized upon for the 
earlier removals. His own horse had been lent before 
night, and was nowhere to be found. The hours seemed 
days in his search, and flakes of fire were falling in the 
garden, as he drove up to the back gate, with a little 
light wagon, a countryman had just come to town in. 
It would take his mother at least. Great was his relief, 
to find standing in the kitchen, a broad-shouldered 
Irishman, whom Norah presented as, “ a cousin of mine, 
sir ? ” Coming in to look for his friend, he had ren- 
dered vital service, in putting out the fire which had 
caught on the top of the shed, and now waited to aid 
in the departure. 

Norah who had been alternately lamenting “ the 
week’s wash, all lying so swate and clane, in the bas- 
kets up stairs,” and the “ iligant dishes, the old Captain 
had brought from over the say,” was wrapping up a 
loaf of bread ; “ for sorry a bit of bread there’ll be in the 
town, the morn, with all of us burnt up alive. And 
wasn’t it meself, that saw the big flour mill, all tumbling 
down with the fire ! ” 

Mrs. Vaughan and her daughter stood ready, if that 
could be readiness, which had no preparation, in the 
dining-room where the light was least vivid, that Alice 
might not be frightened. For the moment, their chief 
care was poor Muff. He had crept away from grand- 
mamma and Alice at the first alarm, had startled Aunt 
Mary and Rob in their search for the bags, by his glow- 
ing eyes behind the chimney — had trotted in and out, 
in a curious sort of disturbance, as the packing went 
on, occasionally stopping to rub his head against his 


15 


mistress. But when, as they closed the last bag, Rob, 
returning to his first thought, said, “ but you haven’t 
put in Muff ! ” the cat was missing. To desert him 
was cruel. Hastily calling him through all the rooms, 
they were about to give up the search as hopeless, when 
Rob discovered him, his ears crested and his eyes shin- 
ing in the firelight, behind the curtain, on the window- 
sill in the upper front entry, where he had often hidden, 
when tired of the children’s play. Rob captured him, 
and he was now securely shut up in the china closet. 

Their council was hurried. Mr. Vaughan hoped to 
have time to return, after taking his mother and Alice 
to his own house. If not,, at the worst, aunt Mary and 
Rob could walk safely, with Norah and Dennis Crogan 

or , “ stay ! If Alice could walk, he could save 

Willy’s picture” — wee Willy, his mother’s first-born, 
gone safe to heaven, five and forty years before ! Norah 
was ready to carry Miss Alice “ to the world’s end ; ” 
and at any rate, he should meet them before they had 
gone far, if it seemed unsafe to wait. The little wagon, 
patched and frail at the best, could only take himself 
and his mother, with the most precious of the bags 
— and, by leaving Alice, the portrait. Crogan would 
drag another bag, with Norah to help. The other two 
must be left. “ But Muff? ” Knotting his handkerchief 
firmly over the cat’s head and front paws, Mr. Vaughan 
found he was so far helpless, as to make it possible, 
perhaps, for Rob, a strong boy of his age, to carry him 
at least out of the range of the fire. Mary had reserved 
her writing desk for her own hands. 

Thus ordered, they opened the front door to set forth, 


16 


but shrank back in terror, at the sight before them. All 
the air was filled with sparks of fire, like a whirlwind 
of fast-falling snow. Above them, the street was all 
aglow. Escape that way, was impossible. They must 
go, far round as it was, by the lower street, through 
which Mr. Vaughan had come to the garden gate. 

Still that relentless wind fanned the hot fury of the 
devouring flame. 

The brazen knocker clanged as Mr. Vaughan forced 
to the door with all his strength, and the rusty key 
grated in the huge lock, as Mary turned it, with a 
thought, “ It may not burn, yet ! I will at least lock out 
robbers ! ” The others hurried on, but she lingered 
for a moment at the parlor door. Except the two por- 
traits, nothing had been moved, not a book or flower, 
since the happy morning. The music lay on the piano, 
her work on the table, “ Felix Holt ” and “ Our Young 
Folks/’ on the sofa. She thought of the white spare 
chamber, all ready for the expected summer guests, — 
her mother’s room, the sanctuary of the house, — the 
dear old nursery, — the rooms of her brothers and 
sisters, — her own shady windows, far up among the 
elm-branches, and her heart grew faint, in the agony of 
longing to see them once more. 

The old clock on the stairs struck twelve, — 

‘ ‘ Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! ” 

“ Mary, Mary ! ” called her brother, " are you wild ? 
The church is all on fire ! You are lost if you stay ! 
Taking Alice’s hand, she went out, and the garden 


17 


door locked itself behind her, and she stood — home- 
less ! Yet with that keenness of sense, by which the 
brain, in moments of terror and peril, notes even trifles, 
she caught the scent of the mignonette, as they crossed 
the old garden, and knew, that on the white rose-bush, 
the first bud which she and Alice had watched since 
Sunday, had opened since noon. 

“ Oh flowers ! that never will in other climates grow!” 

Was even Eden dearer, than the home she was leaving, 
with the flaming sword descending upon it ? 

The gate opened upon a lane through which the way 
was easy, though the breath of the swift-coming de- 
stroyer was hot upon their cheeks. At the little brown 
house, the sitting-room shutters were flung wide, the 
lamp burned alone on the table, but the front door was 
open — the sisters were gone. 

Once upon the street, their progress was more diffi- 
cult. Here, there was still hope. An engine was at 
work on the corner. Men were on the roofs, and even 
a woman, lashed by a rope to a chimney, stood throw- 
ing water. The side-walk was covered with motley 
piles — some, twice, thrice, nay, seven times removed, 
to be burned at last. Anxious faces. looked out of the 
door ways. Pleading voices asked in vain, for help. 
Over all, was the deep hoarse roar of the fire, like the 
distant rush and roll of angry surf. Bending their heads 
before the blinding light, they made their way past two 
or three squares, till Rob could no longer hold Muff. 
In the pitiful ignorance which prevents dumb animals 


18 


from knowing their best friends, the poor cat was strug- 
gling to escape from his courageous little deliverer. 
Aunt Mary offered to take him, though that involved 
the sacrifice of her precious desk, for Crogan and 
Norah were already overburdened. “No! no!” said 
Rob, “ put the desk on my head, and I’ll carry it, as 
the little negroes in cousin George’s camp, carried the 
water pails.” So the exchange was made, though not 
without frantic efforts to escape* on Muff’s part, and a 
sad scratching of aunt Mary’s arms, for she still wore 
the thin white muslin of the summer noon. Hardly 
had they resumed their walk, when they were startled 
by a scream of terror behind them. Two little girls 
had been following them, carrying some light clothing 
in their arms. One of them was protected by a water- 
proof cloak, but the bundle of the younger had taken 
fire from the thick-falling sparks. She had dropped it 
upon the sidewalk, and the two were trying to stifle the 
flame, which had spread to the child’s own’s dress. 
Crogan sprang to her, and grasping her in his arms, 
extinguished the fire before the child was really hurt. 
Miss Vaughan asked their names, and whither they 
were going? They scarcely knew. “ Father was gone 
to sea. Mother was sick. They thought she would be 
burnt in her bed, — but some men came and took her 
in a blanket. They laid her on the sidewalk, first. 
They did not know where she was now. A cousin 
lived “ down on the dump.” They wanted to go 
there.” 

“ Come with us now,” said Miss Vaughan, “and then 
Mr. Crogan shall take you to your friend.” The little 


19 


dresses, all the child had left in the world, were by this 
time almost burned up, and the fragments were blowing 
off, across the street. Right over them, towards the 
path of the fire, bounded a little dark figure, — and 
aunt Mary bethought herself, that in her start of horror 
at the child’s instant danger, she had forgotten the 
strong clasp necessary to hold Muff, and he had sprung 
from her arms. A stinging pain in her right hand and 
the fast trickling blood showed, how resolute had been 
the struggle, by which the poor pet had freed himself 
from the handkerchief that bound him. Rob and Alice 
began to cry, but there was no help for it — Muff was 
gone, right back towards his home — gone to certain 
death ! 

No words can tell how weary was the way, along that 
noble shaded street, through which the children had 
laughed and played, on many a summer morning. At 
last, they were beyond the range of the flames, and sat 
down to rest, on a low stone wall. Here, Crogan pro- 
posed to leave the bag behind the wall, and to carry 
Rob the rest of the way. 

“Why don’t uncle James come ? ” had been the boy’s 
sorrowful question, again and again. It was more than 
a long hour, since they started ; he should have met 
them, long since. A gentleman passed them, looking 
anxiously right and left. “Uncle James!” screamed 
Alice, — and as much to his own, as to his sister’s 
relief, he stood beside them. He had taken his mother 
safely home, but returning, a loaded dray, furiously 
driven against the little wagon, had totally wrecked it. 
He had escaped himself, strange to say, unhurt, though 


20 


almost stunned by the collision, and had been seeking 
them along the streets. The addition of the little girls 
to the group, had prevented his recognizing them in the 
strange fire light. 

Rob took heart again, on his uncle’s re-appearance, 
and insisted upon walking the rest of the way; so 
Crogan departed with the little girls, promising to 
return and see the bag safe in X — street, before 
morning. 

Sadly they went on their way. Distance gave some 
relief to their dazzled eyes, and aunt Mary and Rob 
could give some heed to uncle James’s hurried account. 
“ It was a clean sweep, from the Sugar House to Mun- 
joy, — nothing left! Would this horrible night never 
end ? But oh ! — the morning ! What sorrow it would 
see ! ” 

“ And oh ! — the trees ! the trees ! ” said aunt Mary, 
as they turned down State street, “the dear old elms ! ” 
— and a shiver of loneliness and desolation passed 
over her, as she looked up to the familiar windows of 
“ happy homes ” — alas ! herself — homeless ! No 
more “ the household fire,” the evening lamp for her ! 
The church clock, hard by, struck two, as they, reached 
her brother’s door — but, long ere that, the old home, 
the elms, the roses, were wrapped in a sheet of flame. 

All night long, the wrathful tempest never stopped 
nor stayed. Up in the grave-yard, beside the dead, all 
night, sat frightened women and children, with dim 
strained eyes, fighting the fire in the dry grass, while, 
close upon them, among the outer rows of graves, it 
scorched, and scathed, and smouldered, till the very 


21 


grave-mounds charred and crumbled to dust. The old 
slate-stones cracked and shivered to splinters, and the 
thick marble bent in the glowing heat. 


The broad July sun came up, upon smoking ruins and 
thousands of homeless ! 

“The young children ask bread, and no man breaketh 
it to them. They, that did feel delicately, are desolate 
in the streets.” 

“How is the city of praise not left, the city of my 
joy!” 

“ O vine of Sibmah ! I will weep for thee ! the spoiler 
hath fallen upon thy summer fruits and thy vintage !” 

Yet in all those crowds, they say it, who saw it, was 
not a murmur or complaint. Patient courage and reso- 
lute hope braced every soul. Nor was help far off. 
Wherever Fire was still the useful domestic sprite, not 
the terrible destroying demon of the night, kind hands 
were busy. All over the land, generous hearts were 
stirred at the tale of sorrow. By noon, loaded trains 
were speeding from East and from West. God bless 
the hearts and hands that sprang so instantly to our 
relief, in that hour of bitter need ! 

The next day, grandmamma and aunt Mary were too 
exhausted to think much, or remember. One and 
another came and went, with sorrowful sympathy. Rob 
and Alice talked of lost balls and hoops, but, most of 
all, mourned* for poor Muff. 

Cousin Charles went out to carry soup, and came 
with stories to make one’s heart ache. The great 


22 


school-yard was full of hungry, tired, women and 
children. Men were asleep on the sidewalks and door- 
steps. Down town, was all heat and smoke and burn- 
ing cellars. The car rails were like twisted serpents 
along the streets. His shoes were crisped with walking 
over the hot sidewalks. 

With evening came uficle John, from Boston. It 
seemed a little gleam of light in the gloom that was 
gathering round them, for a deep darkness was falling 
on all the city. The street lamps could not be lighted, 
and the smouldering fires among the ruins, only made 
the shadows more gloomy. Within doors, were only 
dim candles, or old lamps hunted out from odd 
corners. There were rumors of wild rough men about 
the streets, waiting for midnight, to do their deeds of 
violence. Each man must guard his own that night ! 
Will any one ever forget, how thankful was that once 
peaceful city, for the protection of the soldiers ? 

Late, the next afternoon, the two brothers sought the 
old home. Silently, with full hearts they walked down 
the desolate streets, where no sign nor trace of human 
life was left. In one brief night, the storms of centuries 
had swept by.' White and hoar, the ruins lay like the 
dead cities of long ago. Above them, rose the trees, 
— gaunt, stark skeletons, — the branches that waved in 
the light and greenness and beauty of summer, now 
stretched, stiff and straight northward, in piteous 
appeal from their doom, — dumb witnesses of death, 
against the blast that overwhelmed them ! 

Who can speak the thoughts of the brothers as they 
stopped in the well known street ? Something more 


23 


than half the front wall of the old house was left, so 
that the afternoon sky stared blankly upon them, 
through the windows of “ mother’s room,” out of which, 
they had looked their first on life. Oppressed by the 
dreariness and hopelessness of the scene, they turned 
to cross the yard, to pick up a few fragments as memen- 
toes, when something crept round the corner of the 
house. The brothers almost held their breath, as it 
came very slowly, very softly, over the heaps of broken 
brick to the broad doorstep. 

It was Muff himself! Yet, how changed his look, 
how altered, his mien ? — his glossy coat all rent and 
torn, his white gloves and slippers all black and 
scorched, and one fore -foot, he scarcely touched to the 
ground, as he walked. Through what terrors untold, 
had not the poor fellow come? — terrors of blinding 
light, and drifting smoke — of burning heat, and of 
deep darkness — of hurrying crowds — and of lonesome 
streets — led by the strange instinct that bound him to 
his home, — come, to find at last, that home, a ruin ? 

He paused on the broad stone, as if he knew his 
play-ground — then, resting his fore-paw on the sill, 
stretched his neck to look through. He drew back, 
then looked again, then up over his head, at the 
familiar door-way — then smelt of the stone, then gave 
another long look over the sill, to the right and to the 
left, then slowly turned, perplexed and baffled by the 
strange sight before him. Mr. James Vaughan caught 
him in his arms before he left the step, in great thank- 
fulness to save the household pet alive. For they had 
seen that, on their way through the garden of the little 


24 


brown house, of which I should not like to tell you. 
Only, no one ever saw Old Puss,” nor her daughter, 
nor “ the little black .slug,” anymore! Poor Madame 
Finette was carried away by her master, with her nine 
sons and daughters, but she escaped and ran back to 
her bed, and though twice rescued again, perished at 
last ! 

Very tenderly, they carried the dear old cat to X 

street, to be nursed by aunt Mary and the children 
and the first tears that grandmamma shed after the fire, 
were when uncle James laid Muff, all smutty and dusty, 
as he was, in her arms. 

In the end of the summer, the children’s father and 
mother came for them. When October’s leaves were 
brightest, aunt Mary took Muff to a new home which 
the tenderest love had been preparing for her. 

The hopes of youth may bloom again to new beauty 
and grace, but the heart of the aged knows no second 
Spring. 

The winter wind whistles through the vacant windows 
of the old home, — the winter snow is piled high upon 
the deserted hearth, — but grandmamma, the beloved, 
the revered, is at peace in the House of many 
Mansions. 

February, 1867. 


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